


Alice Isn't Dead

by kathrikat



Category: Alice Isn't Dead (Podcast)
Genre: Assault Description, Body Horror, F/F, Fire, Gen, Gore, Horror, Poverty, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathrikat/pseuds/kathrikat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her wife isn't gone. Alice isn't dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Omelet

**Author's Note:**

> Today Alice Isn't Dead Aired. (3-8-16) Decided to Celebrate. This will be a collection of fics that I write after an Alice Isn't Dead episode comes out. I hope you enjoy!

The widow flees across the open road, and the Thistle Man follows.

The road was the heart of her motivation. Never ending. Too hot, too cold. Her hair stuck to the side of her face, her hands shook in front of the heaters. She drives beneath the sky like a broken doll. Her wife isn’t gone.

She has nightmares about death and of the horrors that are yet to come. They persist like rotting flies. Not the bad kind of rot, but like decaying fruit turning into soil. The cars and people pass her by too quickly and she has been struck with a momentary dizziness, the kind that makes the whole world seem better than it actually is.

Her fragile yet firm hands grip the steering wheel. Tighter than she should be. Her knuckles are white. She takes a peek into her rear view mirror and for a moment, one solitary, finite moment, she thinks she sees Alice staring back.

Maybe she does.

However, the illusion is shattered just as quickly as it arrives. Her insomnia stricken lashes erase it like the touch of a finger on chalk. Just barely there but blurry. From her side comes an aching twitch. A looming twitch that mocks the words

**_Objects in mirror are closer than they appear._ **

She flinches at the thought of those _hands_ and _teeth_ and _face_ being anywhere near her. She doesn’t know how she ever even let him speak to her, nor how no one took recognition to him. His semi humanoid form is leeching at her skull. Those yellow,  _translucent,_ fingernails. They rip and tear and no matter how hard she squirms they won’t let go.

_He isn’t a man._

His harrowing voice echos through the truck, though she’s not sure from where. It’s like the low moaning of the wind. What he says doesn’t match his face. _What he is, doesn’t match his body._ It’s like he has no idea how it works. His limbs bumbling in all direction like they have no bone or muscle. Just sacks of flesh that he has no control over.

_**Wanna see somethin’ funny?** _

She shudders and holds the steering wheel tighter still.

_He’s going to ruin me._ She thinks.

She doesn’t care.

This is about Alice. She’s never loved anyone more from her  _goddamned_ gut. She has mourned, and she has, and will continue to go through hell and back. _Her wife isn’t gone._ It isn’t a plea, it isn’t a request or a command.

Through the side mirror, she sees his figure just there, just barely there edging onto her peripheral. He will stay there until he doesn’t. And he will be in the next gas station she goes to, buying a week old can of pringles from the lowest shelf in the very back. And that is where he will stay. Until he doesn’t. And then, he will return to the shadows she sees just before falling asleep. His malice reaching out to her just about to touch when she rolls over and forgets he was even there.

This isn’t a spout of denial, either.

Mostly because,

_**Alice isn’t dead.** _


	2. A Town Called Charlatan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did this happen to poor, poor Charlatan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now it is 23:37 on March 22nd, 2016 so technically it ISN'T late. Also I have no idea how to spell Fairenfield.

**A Town Called Charlatan**

* * *

 

 

**_"This town isn't even on the map."_  
**

 

 **_Wrong_** **__._ _ **

 

     It was, once upon a time. It's people filled the news and the empty space of a driven off path. It had stores and kids that rode their bikes to the local diner. _Fairenfield._  A church with a priest everyone loved. It had dogs and lovers, and lovers who owned dogs. It had a small motel. _Trade Wind's Tiki Motel._ There were green lawns that were always mowed, and picket fences that were always painted. _People,_ that were always painted ** _._** It had a flower shop on the corner, and a tattoo shop right across from it. It had had a sky the color of sadness and loneliness, but blue shouldn't be used for such things. It stayed that way even after the world had moved on. The world  _always_ moves on. If anything, this town was beautiful. It's love swallowing everyone whole. The tourists that drove by, always stopped to stay for a while. A lot of times that turned into a long while, which turned into forever. This town had had something you don't find often. It had had  _life._

 

 

     When the widow had approached, she had merely seen a memory of it. No, not a memory.  _Evidence._

 

 

It was evidence that proved, that even for a tiny amount of time, the town had existed. That it hadn't died. Not yet. Not  _really._ Not in the way you think. The widow was blind to how much it really reflected her situation.

 

 

 

 

> _"Something that **isn't** dead. Something that's just looking to be apart of the world again. We both know that can never happen. **They** know it can never happen, and still they continue to persist. Humans and their stubborn ways."_

 

 She saw only the bads, and the grief that was left there. Grief from an event that shouldn't have happened. Not really.  _Not in the way you think._

 

 

 

Before the world had moved on, Charlatan had went into a decline. It's happy exterior soon turned into that of one which was filled with mud. So much mud from the hard beating rain. This could be taken as the world's first warning, like a calm before the storm, perhaps. A town crushed and almost shattered, but they moved on. Much like the world does, but not without consequences. Next, came the inflation, poverty, sadness,  _crying._ _God,_ it seemed as though the crying had went on for  _years._ Like the residents tears eroded away their happiness, their  _faces._ That, however, didn't come until much, _much_ later. It didn't come along until their lives had become transparent. A thing that was there, something you could touch, but could not see. Their lives were never really lived after that.

 

 

_After floods comes drought._

 

 

A town destroyed by the weather, it was now time for the sun to come out. The world would not be as kind this time.  Everyone suffered from the pulsating fire that came from that monstrous orb. There was a rise in sunburns and heat strokes more than ever. The people were in anguish, agony,  _mourning._ They had looked at their little town, and quite like what the widow is wondering, asked themselves,  _Where did it all go wrong?_ _What really reigns as the beginning of this story?_

 

 

No one expected the fire. Though they should've. There were only a few instances that were happening at the time that you ought to know about.

 

 

One of them is of a girl, only a teenager. She had just gotten her first pickup truck from her father.  _A test run._ He has said to her.  _For your mother._ She never did come home from the gas station that day.

 

The other is in a small motel.  _Trade Wind's Tiki Motel._ There, sat two people, a mother and her son. They were yelling at one another over who _really_ had the freedom in the small confinement. Who was _really_ the mature one. _Who **really** loved who._  The argument was never finished. It died off into dissipated words like the rest of them. A love never truly expressed.

 

The last was of a man, who was the final person to see his world dying. He was crossing the road, a newspaper in his hand and a lost lover on the mind. In his final breaths he thought about _him_. And, as long as he knew _he_ was safe, the burning and scorching in his lungs didn't really matter, after all.

 

 The screams that came from that town were heard all over. And that was how a it was lost to the world. _How the world had moved on._  A town that isn't even remembered by name anymore. It's a ghost story, it isn't dead. The widow proved that, and the old man showed her the way out, should she ever come upon the same fate.

 

 

 

 

> _"Suffering never ends in it's constant cycle, it's the people you meet that make it worth while."_

 

 

 

_**"I don't think the World has been to this town in a long time."** _

__

_**Correct.** _


	3. Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the company Thistle? How does the Thistle Man relate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is violence and gore mentioned and described in this chapter. Please be warned.

**_"Do you even know who I work for?"_ **

 

   The company of _Thistle_ had been small. _Small_ , meaning it was non existent to the public. _Small_ , meaning not even made up rumors could be spread around about it. No one knew of this horrific thing, and it was kept under strict watch of the government. Tests in the vitality of humans and just how far limits could be taken. Thistle pushed these limits so far, that in the end, you weren't even human anymore.

 

_The Thistle Man._ An elaborate piece of work that did everything he did for himself. He was made by and worked for for _Thistle_. He followed orders under contract, but he added in his own touch, his own _fun_ in order to get things done properly. If Thistle got mad, he couldn't give a flying fuck.

 

_Partly human, mostly monster._

 

There had been a time, once, so long ago that the Thistle Man can't even remember, when he had been completely human. Though, he preferred to believe he was a monster from the start. He had had a name. One that he can't remember. Or maybe it's that he doesn't want to remember. He clucks his tongue and lets out a low hum. It doesn't matter anymore. The days' end is near, and a new day brings new opportunities. New feeding ground.

  
His yellow, translucent fingernails hit and scrape against the side of his pants in ecstatic glee and he revels in the way he can destory. The way he can take life with a flick of his wrist. Had the taste of blood and flesh always been so exquisite to the palate? He hoped so. His tongue flicks over his fangs, which are just barely human passing, and he feels his it begin to bleed. _God_ , what a divine sensation.

 

The widow had approached a gas station, and he followed unseen.

 

The hardest part of the job, had been getting inside the bitches' trailer. He didn't care what her name was. Well, he _knew_ what her name was, but it never sounded right. Calling her names and half assed insults was much better in his mind.

 

He slipped himself under her gaze, under her senses and had gotten inside.

 

He had to stifle a chuckle every time she pulled over and riled herself up over the noise he was making, her voice filled with trepidation as she spoke into the recorder. To _Alice_. The way her fear consumed _her_ like he did Earl. Her hands ripping and going through every box and every corner she could touch.

 

He thought it was real funny how no one ever thinks to look _up_.

 

He cackled at her stupidity. The way she thought she could run from his grasp in a _parking lot_. The police would never be on her side. _No one_ would ever be on her side. He smiled, his rotten teeth showing. _Not even Alice._

He gets a pleasant chill down his spine after the fight. He could've snapped her in half. He could've ripped her head clean off and lapped up the remains. One of his hands twitch in anticipation. He frowns. _He could've, but he didn't_.

His nails dig into his too tight skin and growls. _He didn't do it._ His power stripped clean from him. His humanity, or at least the bit he had left had taken over any and all thought process. His inhuman skeleton ached with rage. He had looked her in the eyes with _worry_. With _concern_.

 

_**"You could go home."** _

 

He pulls his hat down to cover his eyes. They're dilated, a pure animalistic instint coursing through them. What a dumb thing he had said. There was no home. No home for _her_ , no home for _him_. Just places that we feel safe in, and that as of now, was _no where_. As long as he and Thistle were around, there was no time nor place for the good in the world. No one could be safe. Everyone was vulnerable. People with open doors and welcoming arms, their delusion of protection and prosperity leaving them in a high of sorts. Leaving them open. He groans in pleasure at the thought of being able to feast so openly, and wishes for that time to come sooner.

 

He nods to the officer and his legs that don't work properly move forward. They're sacks of flesh that he has no control over. They're superior to him in a way. They take him under the twinkling lights of Target and he smiles, his rotten breath letting out a laugh. He would move on. He would be out of sight. And when the widow herself moved on, he would be in her trailer.

 

After all, there were always consequences to those who ignore warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really enjoy writing the Thistle Man. I might do more if you guys are interested.


	4. Jack(ie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short story about Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I don't know how to spell Praxis Industries but I sure would love to hear a podcast about them as soon as possible.

_**"Our coffins last a lifetime!"  
**_  
 _ **Praxis Industries. Leaderless. Spinning.  
**_  
   
Jackie. A young man the age of 18, maybe less.  _Probably less._  He had joined the company Praxis Industries for wealth. For love. For  _granted_. In it he saw a way out, to leave a dying world. Three stops and one to depart with. It was simple. They said they would help him. They said they knew a way out. He believed them. One so young and naive, he didn't think there could be consequences to something so small. It was just a coffin company. A coffin company that appeared over night three days ago, but he didn't think that he had any other options. This was the only way he saw out. When he had first entered, the place was clean. Not  _clean_  clean, but like the type of clean you see at a hospital. The walls were a green, the kind that's off just enough to make you feel bad. He had been sweaty, his sound waves closer together, higher pitched. It was obvious he was nervous, and the assistant clerk didn't really help with that, either.  
  
   
When he arrived there, she was crying. Correction, she was crying blood. The stuff oozed from her eyes like fudge. It was thick, like molasses. She hadn't appeared to be phased by it, and instead had handed him the forms that he had needed. His hands had shook as he wrote on the dotted line. The X mocked his misery and desperation. Some crying had happened. The woman didn't seem phased by this either, just sent him a slightly disgusted look when he handed the paper back.   
  


He didn't know exactly what his job was, but sometimes a sheet of paper flew from the ceiling with his name on it and told him what to do. It was simple things, like take out the trash, clean down tables, report the daily news. Correction, he didn't take out the trash as much as he just threw it out one of the upper levels window, watching the bags that felt like sacks of uncontrolled flesh tumble out and hit the ground with a grotesque splat. He didn't know what they were filled with. He wasn't allowed. He thought he was better off not knowing anyway.  
  


He came here to die. He knew that. It was all just a matter of time that he didn't have. The logo caught his eye one day, hands lowering a coffin into the sea. Was that going to be his fate? Some dead lifeless form that was going to be eaten by the fish at the bottom of some long lost forgotten part of the world. Maybe he'd be found some day. A day when the world wasn't dead. He wasn't one to believe in the afterlife, but if there was one, he sure hoped hell was colder than he was.

 

_Knock, Knock!_

 

The rapping sound in the walls had started again, louder this time. It meant the office manager wanted to see him, which he had learned the hard way. (he had let the knocking get so loud that he passed out and then woke up in one of the upper levels of the factory, the manager revealing a grin of animosity)

The manager wasn't a bad person. If person was the term to describe him. His teeth were sharp, not sharp enough to be fangs but not human enough to _not_ be fangs. His skin was fair, his eyes reddened, his hair greasy. He wore a yellow hat that he always had pulled over his eyes. On his breast pocket was the words Thistle. Jackie had heard of the company before but he wasn't too sure what they did. The manager's legs worked as though he didn't know how to move them. Like they were sacks of flesh he had no control over. _And the yellow fingernails._ Translucent, peeling back at the bottom. His smile was sickly and every time Jackie saw it he wanted to turn and throw up, run as far away as he could from the fate he had put himself in. But he didn't. He didn't because he knew they would hunt him down like a dog. Hunt him and kill him anyway. Trading life as currency was not an uncommon thing.  
  


_"I'm just here for the days **you're** here."_   
  


He had spoken to him, voice sounding like the hallowing of the wind. Tongue pointed and licking his chops. It was unsettling from Jackie's side.  
  


_"Therefore I'm **your** manager."_   
  


Jackie nodded. of course the man was his manager, but the way he put emphasis on your made him shiver. Like the guy was only going to be Jackie's manager, and only that.  
  


_"And today you're on unpackaging duty."_   
  


At this point you might be thinking this is the part where he meets our lovely narrator, it's not. Just a test the manager had wanted. And Jackie had passed. He had been promoted, actually. The young man wasn't too sure if that was a good or bad thing with him seemingly being the only one around the creepy factory. He was the one setting the standards for the next bastard who ended up here and he wanted them to last as long as possible, not get promoted as soon as they walked in the door. The next day another package was coming in. The manager told him that he didn't know when, but he knew it was going to be today. Jackie wasn't sure he was liking this. Death felt more like a long lost wish now. He was born to die here. He forced himself into this. If the world was dying he might as well go along with it.

His mouth felt dry and his lungs were having trouble breathing. She had arrived. Here for drop off. Little bits of wood were what it was. He knew exactly what those were for.

Jackie knew what he had to do now. 

 

 

Sixteen years. That's how much time had passed. He had watched his skin grow older, his face appear to have _almost wrinkles._  Like the lines were forming, but there definitely wasn't anything apparent. Hair was more grey now. And then she walked in. She was the same. Still pretty, still the person he had choked up around. He smiled, and pretended that nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just waited that long for her to arrive. He tried to recall the last conversation they had together but came up with nothing. He knew that if there was nothing else, there would always be  _nothing._

 

He continued his job. No time could be wasted now. Two more stops. A contract fulfilled. A life spent.

 

He noticed her confusion and concern, but pretended not to notice. He really hoped she couldn't see through his pretending. Pretending was the only thing he was good at it seemed. Pretending to love. Pretending to care. Pretending to  _live._  

He scrambled through the next door.

 

 

This next one was worse. 30 years. He was in his early sixties. Wrinkles and dimples more prominent. His voice was more gravelly. It was really the spots and white hair that scared him. Such beautiful potential, gone in a matter of minutes. A matter of minutes to most, thirty years to Jackie-  _Jack._ He hadn't been called that first name in a long time.  
  


_"Leave the younger name to the younger man."  
_

At this point the other person in the room knew what he was up to, and did nothing to stop it. There was nothing she could do. She had her duties and he had his. Life is not well if not spent on love. He knew this, and wished that he had done just that. Wished he had loved more. Loved his mother, his sister,  _himself._ He had been such a frightened boy in the beginning. The crashing waves from outside soothed him, and he waited for the conversation to end before the ushered himself into the next room.

Into nothing.

 

 

The final stop and the woman didn't show an ounce of pity. Just helped him into the handmade coffin, and gave one firm push.

He wasn't scared. He had spent his whole life being scared. Now, he felt alive. The taste of salt on his tongue, the sand in his shoes. Water for miles and miles around. He surged with the feeling of happiness. The thought of disappearing into those black, curling waves was more than enticing. He swallow as she helped to lower him. His age spots were dark, his eyes cloudy, hair barely there. Fingernails had dirt under them. He looked up, and saw it. A planet of awesome size. All thick black forests and grey skies. With one last surge of energy he reached up.

 

The coffin shut.

 

**_"Our coffins last a lifetime!"_ **

 

_A lifetime indeed._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about writing more about the side characters, or things that don't really revolve around our narrator. I just feel as though we already get her perspective of things because she's the one speaking in the podcast and that if I did write from her perspective I would just be writing what already happened. If this bothers you guys please tell me and I can change things up I suppose! Also, since this chapter came out late, I will be making up for it with another chapter based on the episode that isn't angsty, but will be about the narrator and Alice before the events of the podcast takes place! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Feedback is appreciated!


	5. Billboards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice just wants her wife to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS IS SO LATE O H MY GOD This started out so well and now the entire schedule is off. It's mostly because school ended with finals and projects and all that jazz. Also, my goal from now on is to make the chapters 1,500-2,000 so it's gonna take longer. I hope you all can forgive me, but I have a lot more free time now, so hopefully I can things back on schedule. (I also realize that there is the new chapter "Sylvia" which I will try to write for sooner or later, my writing just hasn't been as passionate lately, really sorry guys)

 

Alice never wanted this.

She doesn't know if that statement reigns true anymore, but she likes to believe it does. She likes to believe in a lot of things, most of which are about her wife. Her ex wife? Her "widowed" wife? She doesn't know what they're relationship could be described as. She doesn't know if the two of them could ever be something again. If they could go back to having pizza nights and forehead kisses. Holding hands, touching, whispering silly things to each other in the dead of night. The two of them talking about anything and everything, but never much about themselves. Alice, never talking much about herself. There was good reason for that. Attachment was never supposed to be apart of her life. She was never supposed to fall in love. Those weren't direct orders. But she had. And now she was miles away from the love of her life listening on any and all radio frequencies. From 660 on the radio dial with "Sammy" and "Ben", to some dumb company with murderous shareholders, to receiving weird signals with piano music, all the way to her wife's broad cast. Is this how it was going to end? She doesn't know.

She glances at the reflection in the mirror, and doesn't recognize the other. That isn't Alice. That's some look a like. A coward who was too afraid to face the consequences and is now dead because of it. Her radio buzzes in the background. Static that matches her heartbeat. Her wife would be channeling in any minute now, Alice could feel it. With all her make up and tight clothing and straightened hair and sharp red nails. Even now when Alice has long since died with the world, she can tell. She knows.

She knows because not only did she go through the exact same thing, but because she _can_ recognize the other thing in her mirror. The beast of yellow teeth. The way they glisten with lust as they tear through flesh. The bloodshot eyes that never seemed to be moving, but never stayed in the same place either. Skin that doesn't fit, that stretches over the bone like a hand going through latex gloves. His legs that are sacks of flesh with a mind of their own, twisting and turning as if he has no control over it. She'd recognize it anywhere.

_"Beast."_

She speaks to it, venom in her tone. Every fiber in her being tells her she should hate him. There's this twinge of pity, maybe, of trust. She sees the sliver of good that pokes and prods at his actions. The way he hesitates when throwing a victim onto the ground. He apologizes. Anxiety that ran through his veins still pushing, and mocking, and smiling. Sometimes she sees him twitch in silent agony, his verbal and physical actions almost never matching. She feels remorse that she couldn't have helped him before it became too late. His hat stays pulled over his head for a moment before he meets her gaze in the mirror.

_"Alice."_ His voice is more friendly, and in no way is that good. He keeps it low, keeps his smile demonic, keeps his eyes animalistic. He sniffs the air and licks his chops. She knows he hasn't fed in a while. He's been waiting for this. He flicks into autopilot, his sacks of flesh starting to propel himself from his leaning position on the wall. Alice interrupts him with her bored tone, dull nails clicking against the mahagony desk she calls her own.

"Is it done?" Shes asks him with a sense of care. It's not for him. (It's for the job she's given him.) Her face continues to be slathered in make up, unmoving, uncaring. She has no real feelings for the creature. Nothing in her failing heart that could bring the distance between them any closer. He's too far gone. Nothing for him, nothing for her, nothing for the dead. She watches the Beast pick at his broken fingernails and put on a look of hurt. It doesn't suit him.

"Now, now, Alice. Don't you trust me?"

She continues to look in the mirror. _Thistle._ His shirt reads. The Beast creeps closer to her, a hand caressing her soft hair. It's not loving. It's to check if she's worth it, sizing her up if you will. She lets him do it. Best not to make him mad.

"I think it best for me to not answer that."

The hand stops, pulls away. A sickening frown forms on his face. It doesn't suit him.

" _Alice_." She hates the way he says her name. "Of course it's done. I'm a man of my word. You wound me with such harsh words. Not everything is against you, you know. Not everything is as bad as you think."

Alice smiles. It's not genuine. It doesn't suit her. A man he had called himself. Oh how she wanted to laugh in his pathetic face. A man. How far from it. The furthest. No word that escaped his rotted mouth could be good. Her head shakes and the Beast licks his chops again. It's not for her.

"No." Alice says, her hands continuing to click against the table. "It's just you."

Alice jerks when he slams a hand next to her, the desk quaking beneath his touch. She wonders, is this what he did to her wife? She had heard the story, heard her wife sobbing from the fight, and she didn't even flinch. The Beast could hurt her just as much as he could Alice.

A lot.

This action was not to frighten, it was a warning. Something to show her that there were consequences in what she does. Alice sat there, nothing in her mind, nothing on her face. This wasn't anything uncommon. It was a strange thing to become accustomed to, but when the world is dead, you can find yourself becoming used to just about anything.

Just about.

The Beast's cracked and dried hands touched hers. The one that had been clicking.

"Ah, Alice. You know I didn't mean that, but I just did a very nice thing for you. That billboard was hard to do. You know how things are."

She nods. It's sad, filled with solemn longing for a better job, a better life. One where she hadn't fucked things over. It doesn't suit her.  
She thinks about alternate universes. How many there are where her and her wife are still together. Where she hadn't "died". They are all infinite. If only she was, too. She lets the change in air shift as the Beast takes out something from his pocket. It's his cell phone. He smiles, his eyes dark as he hands it over. She glances at the billboard in a bit of- something. Awe, maybe? It's sleek. White background. Black text. It's new, not old and wearing away.

**_"Chanterelle. Miss you. Go home."_ **

It's a little blunt, but her wife (widowed wife?) should know better. Should stop before she ends up dead. Should stop looking through old documents on old computers. It'll just make things worse. It'll make things worse, even more so than she did. It'll get her killed. Alice flinches when the Beast snatches it out of her hand, pupils dilated. Teeth looking just a tad bit sharper than when she saw him a few moments ago.

"Where's my pay, then?"

The Beast asks her, hands fidgety and trembling. His face and minds tell her he doesn't want the pay, that he wants to leave. His heart and impulse drive tell him otherwise. Alice nods to the corner of the room, eyes dull, looking downward at the stained floorboards. There is a chair with a wooden box on it. Flies roam around it like cattle to hay. It's stained like the rest of the place. Brown that crusts the outside and fills the air with a strange tang. She doesn't notice it anymore, her nose has become accustomed to it. The Beast bumbles over to it, his mouth drooling with a kind of ecstasy that Alice has never seen before in her life. The lock opens with a click, and he pulls the dripping sack from it excitedly. His hands reach inside for the torn, raw flesh. She doesn't know what kind it is. As long as he's happy.

Alice turns back to face the mirror, watching him devour it all in a backwards glee. It doesn't suit him. She looks at herself once more, knowing that the person that her wife (widowed wife?) once knew is gone. The person who loved pizza nights, and forehead kisses, and hand holding, and the feeling of  _love._ _Alice,_ the woman she had grown to know and love and care for? That person is no longer her. That person left a long, long time ago. It left when everything else left. It  _died when everything else died._

_Alice is dead._

And it doesn't suit her.

 

 


End file.
